The Mordida Man (19 page)

The Minister had made the twenty-seven-mile drive from the island's capital by himself in his brother the Prime Minister's Cadillac El Dorado convertible. For company and security he had brought along tapes of Carly Simon, a bottle of fiery 190-proof rum, and a sawed-off shotgun that rested across his lap.

At the entrance to the plantation's drive he honked his horn to wake up two of the republic's soldiers, who composed 20 percent of the force that had been assigned to guard the plantation's distinguished foreign residents. The soldiers rose, yawned, stretched, accepted a drink of rum, gave the Minister their thoughts on the approaching cup final, and when he was gone, settled back down in the shade to finish their morning nap.

Standing on the veranda of the plantation house waiting to greet the Minister was Jack Spiceman, the ex-FBI agent.

“Hello, Jojo,” Spiceman said.

The Minister sat motionless in the car waiting for the Simon song to end. “Sings pretty, don't she?” he said.

“Very pretty,” Spiceman said, turned, and headed into the house. The Minister got out of the car and followed him, the shotgun in the crook of his left arm.

The meeting was held, as always, in the main drawing room, which was still furnished with chairs and sofas and tables from the 1930s that Leland Timble, the bank robber, had had beautifully refinished and reupholstered by skilled craftsmen in the republic's capital. Timble was sitting in a wingbacked chair when Spiceman entered followed by the Minister. On a nearby couch sat the ex-CIA man, Franklin Keeling. As was his usual custom during the monthly visit from the Minister, Keeling occupied himself by carefully wiping away at a loaded .45-caliber automatic with a lightly oiled rag.

The Minister nodded at both Timble and Keeling, picked out a comfortable chair, sat down, rested the shotgun across his knees, and said, “Got any bourbon?”

Spiceman went to a sideboard, poured a tumbler half full of Jack Daniel's, and handed it to the Minister, who drank it down, wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand, and said, “A couple of guys pulled in last night. From Miami. A forty-two-foot Chris Craft. Claimed they had engine trouble. We let 'em dock. Found 'em a mechanic. Fuel line was all fucked up. No big problem. Okay?”

He held out his glass and waited for Spiceman to refill it. This time the Minister took only a modest swallow.

“So they start moving around town, you know, asking questions. We let 'em ask, just making sure who they talked to—okay?” When no one said anything, he continued. “Pretty good operators. Smooth, you know, not too pushy, just a question here, a question there. You know. Then they somehow got hold of that fuckin' Cornelius.”

Timble was the first one to speak. He said, “Ah,” and looked interested.

“We're gonna have to do something about that fuckin' Cornelius,” the Minister said.

“No,” Timble said. “Every community needs its dissidents. Especially its tame ones; and you'll have to agree, Jojo, that Cornelius is exceedingly tame. Besides, he puts out a lively little newspaper that I quite enjoy. A decided community asset.”

“He talks too much,” the Minister said.

“So they talked to him,” Keeling said. “Then what?”

“Well, then they got into a fight with a buncha guys.”

“And?”

“One of 'em got his arm busted—the left one. The other one got banged up pretty good around the head. Maybe a concussion. So we took 'em to the hospital, you know, and set the one guy's busted arm without any painkiller, and that made him yell a lot, and we gave the other guy a couple of aspirin—for his concussion, you know—and then asked if they wanted to stay in the hospital a few days, and if they did, how were they gonna pay for it, since somebody had lifted their wallets during that fight they got themselves into. Here.”

The Minister took two wallets from a pocket and tossed them to Spiceman, who began examining their contents.

“They decided they'd better go back to Miami,” the Minister said and drank some more of his bourbon. “They left early this morning.”

“What kind of questions were they asking?” Timble said.

“The usual shit. How much you paid and who got it and if there'd been any strangers up around here. And, oh yeah, they wanted to know all about your security setup. How many and where and had it been beefed up lately. That kinda shit.”

Timble nodded. “I see.”

“Nice names,” Spiceman said and passed the two wallets over to Keeling. “Roger Sawyer and Daryl-with-a-‘y' Nicety. I wonder who dreamed Nicety up?”

“From Miami and Omaha,” Keeling said, examining the wallets' contents. “Sawyer's a lawyer and Nicety, who's from Miami and owns the boat, is an investment counselor. Not bad.”

The Minister rose. “Anything else?”

Timble looked at his two associates, who shook their heads. “I don't think so, Jojo,” Timble said. “Thanks for coming by.”

“No problem,” the Minister said.

He turned to go, and the small game began, the game they played every month. “I think you forgot your case,” Timble said.

“Oh, yeah,” the Minister said, turning and accepting the tan plastic attaché case that Keeling held out to him. “Thanks.”

Keeling went with the Minister as far as the veranda, the .45 automatic still dangling in Reeling's left hand. “Say hello to the Prime Minister for us,” Keeling said.

“Yeah, I'll do that,” said the Minister of Youth and Sport. He locked the attaché case away in the Cadillac's trunk, climbed into the front seat, laid the shotgun across his lap, stuck another Carly Simon into the tape deck, and drove off into the soft morning air, humming along with her.

When Keeling came back into the drawing room, he put the automatic away in a drawer, poured himself a tall glass of Perrier over ice, squeezed a lime into it, added a whisper of gin for taste, and said, “Well, who were they?”

“Let me show you something,” Spiceman said and handed Keeling two blue and white Social Security cards that he had taken from the two wallets that the Minister had left behind.

“What about them?”

“Did you ever watch TV?”

Knowing it was a trick question, Keeling nodded cautiously.

“Ever notice anything about telephone numbers on TV?”

Keeling shook his head, but Timble, smiling his happy-face smile, nodded that he had noticed something. “They all start with 555.”

“Right,” Spiceman said. “The phone company comes up with them. You want to use a number on TV, that's fine with the phone company as long as it starts with 555.”

“But there isn't any 555 exchange, is there?” Timble said.

“None anywhere. The phone company came up with it because if you've got twenty or twenty-five million people watching a TV program, and they hear a phone number, then there're going to be about one or two thousand nuts who're going to dial it just to see who's home.”

Keeling looked down at the two Social Security cards he was holding. “These both begin with 999.”

“It was the old man's idea,” Spiceman said.

“Hoover's?”

Spiceman nodded. “It happened about thirteen, fourteen years ago. Old J. Edgar heard through that grapevine of his that the Agency wanted a new batch of fake Social Security cards. So he passed the word to someone in Social Security that the Director would deem it a personal favor if all of the CIA's fake Social Security cards could be easily identified—in the interest of national security, of course. So the Social Security people came up with the 999 number. They forgot to mention it to anybody out at the Agency, though, and it gave us a nice little handle on you guys.”

“Then it would seem,” Timble said, “that the two gentlemen in the Chris Craft from Miami were CIA.”

“Looks that way,” Spiceman said.

Timble leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. “I wonder,” he said dreamily, “what Dr. Mapangou is doing?”

Keeling looked at his watch. “You mean right about now?”

Timble nodded slightly, his eyes still closed.

“Well, right about now,” Keeling said, “Old Black Joe should be talking to the Libyans.”

Dr. Joseph Mapangou had been waiting for forty-three minutes in the sparsely furnished reception room on the twenty-first floor of Libya House, the twenty-three-story building on East 48th Street just west of First Avenue that the Libyans had recently built at a cost of seventeen million dollars to house and office its United Nations delegation and consulate staff, although there was now no consulate staff to speak of because of the rupture in relations between Libya and the United States.

Dr. Mapangou was wearing what he sometimes thought of as his diplomatic uniform—a dark gray, almost black, suit with a pearl-gray vest, a very conservative dark blue tie, white shirt, and a gray Borsalino fedora, which he balanced on his right knee. On his left knee was a chocolate-colored ice cream bag from Rumpelmayer's. For the past fifteen minutes Dr. Mapangou had been wondering how long the insulated bag would keep something from melting. Or thawing.

Just as Dr. Mapangou's wait reached its fiftieth minute, a slim young Libyan dressed in tailored jeans and a gray cashmere jacket came through a set of double doors, closed them behind him, and glided over to his desk. He stood there for several moments, staring down at a sheet of paper and tapping a pencil absently against the desk, obviously lost in deep thought, presumably about world problems.

After fifteen or twenty seconds of table tapping, he glanced up and seemed to notice Dr. Mapangou for the first time.

“Oh. Dr. Mapangou,” he said in a practiced you-still-there tone. “Yes, I do believe he's free now.”

Dr. Mapangou rose, clutching his hat and his ice cream bag and smiling just a little to demonstrate that he hadn't even noticed the fifty-minute wait. Let the clerks and the small boys have their little victories, he thought. Those are the only ones they will ever win. Thus both cheered and bolstered by his comforting platitude, he followed the young Libyan through the twin doors into a huge corner office. There was no carpet on its cement floor or pictures on its walls or drapes for its immense windows that looked across the street into the windows of another building.

But there was a beautiful partner's desk that may have been three hundred years old. Behind it was a man in his forties who seemed to be examining some swatches of color. In front of the desk for visitors were two canvas camp chairs.

The man behind the desk was Fathi Ashour, Libya's principal delegate to the United Nations. He looked up from the swatches of color and smiled when Dr. Mapangou entered. The smile was wide, white, practiced, and meaningless. A diplomat's smile.

“Joseph!” Ashour said in a clear tenor that went with his five-nine height, 126-pound weight, and busy movements. “How good to see you. Do sit, but I must apologize for—” He completed the sentence with a wave of his hand that took in the bare floor and walls.

“Still moving in, I see,” Dr. Mapangou said, lowering himself into one of the camp chairs.

“What do you think—green or tan? For the drapes, I mean.” He held up first one swatch of material, then another.

“Green,” Dr. Mapangou said firmly.

“Green. Yes, well, green is nice. Tea?”

“Yes, thank you, tea would be good.”

Ashour poured two cups from the pot on his desk, handing one to Dr. Mapangou. “Do you realize that we Libyans drink more tea per capita than any country on earth?”

“No, I didn't know that,” Dr. Mapangou said and sipped his tea. It was tepid and he put the cup back down on the desk.

“So,” Ashour said and smiled.

Dr. Mapangou made sure that his own small, pleasant smile was fixed and steady. “I have an extremely delicate problem to discuss with you.”

“Delicate?”

“Yes. Delicate.”

Ashour nodded. “I see.”

“I think,” Dr. Mapangou said slowly and modestly, “that over the years I have acquired some small reputation for total discretion.”

“Yes. Of course. Total. No question.”

“And this reputation has sometimes—How shall I say it? Propelled, I suppose. Yes, propelled me into situations that are not of my choosing.”

“And you find yourself in such a situation now?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm. More tea?”

“Thank you.”

Ashour topped up Dr. Mapangou's nearly full cup. Dr. Mapangou took an obligatory sip. Ashour clasped his hands across his chest, leaned back in his chair, and smiled some more.

“Because of my small reputation for discretion, I was recently approached by certain persons whose names I cannot reveal. They gave me a message to give to you, which you may wish to transmit to your government. If you insist that I reveal the identities of these persons, then I think our conversation should end here and now.”

Ashour frowned. The frown made his eyes narrow. The smile had gone. “Continue,” he said.

“With the stipulation that—”

“Yes, no names,” Ashour said. “Go on.”

“Yes, well, I suppose I had best show you something first. Something shocking.”

“Shocking?”

Dr. Mapangou nodded. He put his Borsalino hat on the floor, picked up the chocolate-brown ice cream bag, and placed it on the desk. “Shocking,” he said. “I must apologize.”

Dr. Mapangou opened the ice cream bag. “Do you have a piece of paper?”

“Paper? What kind of paper?”

“Any kind. It's such a beautiful finish, I don't want to—”

Ashour opened a drawer, took out a plain sheet of bond, and placed it in the center of the desk.

Dr. Mapangou reached into the paper bag, took out a metal cylinder, and twisted off its cap. He glanced at Ashour, whose dark eyes were now wide and staring.

Dr. Mapangou closed his own eyes and shook the severed finger out onto the sheet of bond. He heard Ashour say several words in Arabic which sounded like exclamations. Dr. Mapangou opened his eyes and was relieved to see that the severed finger was pointing toward Ashour. Not that it meant anything, of course, but still …